


sewing skills

by Karentt1



Series: Needle and Thread [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: And i dont want to scare anyone, But people have been telling me its really bad, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Im sorry im updating the tags, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and i feel like i should warn you now, geralt can eat shit man, geralt fucks up, guys um, im actually really sorry about this, this is actually dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: Geralt really loves the silence, but sometimes Jaskier just won't shut up.Thank god he knows how to sew.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Needle and Thread [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813528
Comments: 45
Kudos: 167
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	sewing skills

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: 
> 
> i don't want to spoil anything, but like- Geralt isn't good in this, i kinda wanna kick him into the sun in this, so be careful, and you clicked on this as well, so you can't blame me
> 
> this was actually my first witcher fanfiction I ever wrote, like 3 months ago, but i was scrolling through my docs, and i decided to fix it up
> 
> enjoy i guess

One of Geralt's many skills, among cooking and sword sharpening, was sewing. It was a required skill as a monster hunter who was constantly ripped up, torn apart, and thrown around like a ragged doll. Not only could he sew himself back together after his hunts, but he could sew his shirts as well, with careful stitches, despite them being slightly lopsided. You couldn’t expect him to be perfect after all. 

When Jaskier found out, he was shocked. “You know how to sew, and you didn’t tell me,” he whined pathetically. They were alone in the woods, surrounded by trees, a warm fire crackling in front of them. Some rabbits were roasting over it, their skin cut off, revealing the pink meat underneath. “Do you know many expensive doublets I have torn travelling with you, and you could have fixed them for me? This isn’t fair.” 

“I don’t know how to work with the expensive fabric,” Geralt muttered, staring into the open flame as their supper cooked. The fire burned his skin, and he relished in it. It was almost fall, and a chill fell over the land whenever night fell. Somewhere in the distance, a monster howled, but Geralt didn’t want to find it. Instead, he kept his swords close. 

“Well, you could learn,” Jaskier huffed, sitting down on the log Geralt had dragged over to act as a makeshift bench. His lute was in his lap, and Jaskier absently tugged on the strings, a soft melody filling the night, practically inviting all manners of creatures towards them. Jaskier, the fool, Geralt thought. 

“The supplies are in my pack. Do it yourself,” Geralt said, bringing his hands in front of the fire to warm them up. A log crackled inside, sending sparks up into the air, the ash blown away by the wind. 

Beside him, Jaskier was saying something about the needle making his fingers bleed so he couldn’t play his music, and Geralt privately thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. 

* * *

Geralt loved the silence. He loved it because it allowed him to think, to try and solve the puzzle without any added distractions. It allowed him to keep a sharper mind all around him, to keep watch for anything that could attack when his guard was down. The silence made his hunting easier, made his world less overwhelming. 

Jaskier ripped the silence from him when he showed up, and filled it with his noise. Geralt wouldn’t lie and say that he hated Jaskier’s singing. He was actually quite talented, both lyrically and musically. Geralt just said he hated Jaskier’s songs because he hoped that if he said it enough, Jaskier would finally shut up. There was a time and place for his music, but Jaskier didn’t seem to understand this. And even when he wasn’t playing, Jaskier was humming, talking, fidgeting. They would share a bed sometimes at the inn, and Jaskier would shift under the blankets every minute, and Geralt couldn’t sleep at night. Jaskier was so alive, full of so much life and motion, and Geralt wished he would just stop. The boy was young, but even he knew the concept of staying still, and staying quiet. All he had to do was execute it. 

They were in the market, and Jaskier was dragging him to every stall possible. Jaskier seemed oblivious to the distrustful stares they were both getting, as if Jaskier too was an evil killing creature, the way Geralt was trained to be. No, instead Jaskier tugged him along, peering at everything available, as if they had enough money to afford it, and as if Geralt couldn’t kill him right then. Jaskier grasped his hand like a lifeline, and it was so warm and so small in his own. Geralt could crush his fingers, but he kept his hand loose instead. 

Jaskier bought Geralt a honey bun, and himself a sweet almond pastry, and licked his fingers clean of the icing. His tongue swirled around his finger, and Geralt couldn’t stop staring, no matter how much he wanted to look away. Jaskier finally stopped, and Geralt quickly turned his attention to his own dessert, afraid of being caught staring. It was too sweet for him, but he ate it anyway, because he didn’t want to waste it, because Jaskier was looking at him expectantly. 

“Geralt, I’m going to go get some new clothes, okay?” Jaskier said, and Geralt nodded. Jaskiers voice was loud above the fair, and then Jaskier was gone, going to buy more of his stupid, expensive clothes that he wished Geralt would sew up for him in the woods. 

Geralt was alone, among the people who hated him for what they knew he did. He hated Jaskier for dragging him over here, and leaving him behind. He started walking, admiring the stalls, when something caught his eye from far away. 

It was an old woman's cart, covered in jewellery that shimmered in the sun. The jewels, crystals, stones were bright and expensive, and Geralt knew he would never be able to afford anything on the cart. But that wasn’t what caught his eyes. No, it was a piece of smooth carved wood, displaying several colourful ribbons. Some were yellow, purple, red, and others were just plain white. But one of them stood out, and Geralt carefully reached out a hand to pick it up. 

It was a delicate blue ribbon, the colour of Jaskiers eyes. It was slippery, and shining in the sun, made of expensive strings woven together expertly. Geralt could imagine Jaskier wearing it, around his wrist, around his neck like a choker, and in his hair. It would look good on him too, making him look almost like a doll with little bows. 

“Are you going to buy that?” a voice said, and Geralt looked up at the old woman. She was staring at him disapprovingly, like she knew he could barely afford anything on the cart, and Geralt wanted her to be proven wrong. 

“Yes,” he said, and she held out a wrinkled hand for some coin. Geralt dropped some into the palm of her hand, and she looked it over, before nodding. 

“It’s all yours darling,” she said, putting the coins into a pouch, and waving him away. Geralt stared at her for a few more seconds, then walked off, back into the crowds of people. The ribbon went into his bag, slipping to the bottom, and Geralt hated himself for buying it, for not resisting temptation. 

Jaskier met up with him later, wearing an emerald green and gold doublet, and Geralt hated how amazing it looked on him. He could no longer imagine Jaskier wearing the simple ribbon, not with his new clothes. Jaskier went on talking, like he didn’t know how to stop, and Geralt wanted his silence back.

* * *

They parted ways in the winter; Geralt went to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier went to court somewhere fancy, like he belonged. They waved goodbye, Jaskier blowing a kiss his way, and then he left, whistling his tune, and Geralt got his silence at last. The wind blew through, and it was almost strange, the quiet. 

He made it up to the keep, where he was welcomed with open arms by his brothers and his mentor. The snow came down within the week, locking him inside until the spring, when it all melted away, and he would meet up with Jaskier at the bottom of the mountain. For now, he was in his home, and he was happy to be there. 

He was unpacking his bag inside his room, when his fingers met something smooth, something he didn’t recognise. He tugged it out, and it was the ribbon he got at the fair, and he had forgotten he bought it. It looked out of place among the dirt covered stones of his home, and the shadows the dying fire made on the walls. It was too bright for him, too pretty; he couldn’t wear it, but he couldn’t give it to Jaskier either, not this far away. He tucked it in his pocket instead, then finished unpacking. His brothers were making stew tonight, and he was hungry. 

* * *

They met up again after winter, and Jaskier looked healthier. When he was with Geralt, his weight decreased until he looked almost like a woman, and his cheeks were sunken in. But when he was in court, he was able to find food every day, and his cheeks were bright with red, a sigh of good health. He looked restless though, and his leg bounced under the table at the tavern. 

“Geralt,” he cried, catching sight of him as he walked through the door, and Geralt wondered how he could be so excited to see a witcher, a godless killing machine like the songs implied. But Jaskier had never feared him, not even as a naive eighteen year old boy. Maybe that was why Geralt never got rid of him. “I’ve missed you, my dear,” he said, and Geralt burned at the pet name. 

“Jaskier,” was all he said in return, but Jaskier beamed up at him, like he had never heard his own name before. 

“Let's stay here for the night,” Jaskier said, tugging him to his table, where a bowl of stew lay half eaten. “To celebrate your glorious return!” He called over for two mugs of ale, and they were brought over quickly. Jaskier shoved one of the mugs into Geralt's hands, then shoved him down, and began to talk about his winter, how he spent it around the rich fools of the land, entertaining them with his songs. 

Geralt couldn’t deny him anything, and he wished he could. The ribbon sat at the bottom of his pocket, alone and forgotten, and Geralt didn’t think about it at all. 

The night grew old, and Jaskier was drunk, as he danced around the tables, playing his music. Geralt feared for his fingers, and knew that tomorrow they would be bandaged, and Geralt would be privy to all kinds of whining. The thought didn’t bother him as much as it used to. 

A light weight suddenly came down upon Geralt's thighs, and he looked up to see Jaskier on top of him. His cheeks were flushed, and Geralt almost couldn’t believe how light Jaskier really was. He wondered if maybe he should try to feed him more, to make sure he was healthy. Jaskier refused to leave, the very least Geralt could do was give him a taste of the life he deserved.

“What are you doing?” Geralt grunted, his hands coming around Jaskiers waist. Jaskier’s legs were folded up, looking so small on his lap, and Geralt remembered how the bastard was almost as tall as him. 

“What does it look like, dear heart?” Jaskier asked, a teasing tone, and Geralt truly did not know. Jaskier leaned forward and his lips were close to Geralt's cheek, warm breath on his skin. Geralt wanted to bring his thumb up and brush it against his lips, a light pink colour. They were slightly swollen, and Geralt knew he had been singing all night, his teeth scraping against them. His calloused thumb would be rough over Jaskiers soft, sensitive skin, and Jaskier would shiver. 

He managed to get control of himself just in time, but even he couldn’t push Jaskier off, so Jaskier stayed on his thighs, a warm weight, and Geralt sipped his ale, trying not to think about anything at all. Eventually Jaskier dozed off, his breath at Geralt's neck, and Geralt picked him up, and brought him to their shared room. The bed was warm, and Jaskier snuggled into the blankets, seeking warmth. Geralt decided to sleep on the floor. He didn’t think he could handle it if he woke up with Jaskier around him, like they were lovers. 

Jaskiers soft breathing filled the room, and Geralt's silence was gone. 

* * *

Jaskier didn’t remember what happened, so Geralt pretended not to either. He didn’t want to think about it, about what Jaskier implied. Jaskier continued on like nothing happened, and Geralt did to, not thinking about how warm Jaskier had felt on his lap. How safe and protected he knew Jaskier was, wrapped and caged up by Geralt. He wondered if that would make Jaskier safer, being chained to the ground, where he couldn’t follow Geralt into dangerous situations. 

“Geralt, can you do me a favour?” Jaskier asked, coming into their shared inn room. Geralt looked up from his swords and Jaskier was in front of him, holding his doublet. His lacy chemise was on display, and Geralt growled, knowing that Jaskier had probably walked through the inn wearing nothing but that. It was slightly sheer, and Geralt could see the outline of his body beneath the fabric. No wonder so many people lusted after the bard. 

“What do you want?” he asked, putting his swords aside. He prayed that it wasn’t to save him from another scorned husband or wife. Jaskier looked sheepish, and Geralt internally sighed, preparing himself for whatever Jaskier had done. 

“I may have gotten into a little bit of trouble. I’m okay,” Jaskier reassured, seeing the look on Geralt's face. Geralt tried to school his features into something a bit less murderous. “But I ripped my doublet. And it was expensive too,” he pouted, and Geralt knew what he was going to ask. “Do you think you could try and sew it up for me?” 

Geralt sighed, and beckoned Jaskier closer. Jaskier smiled, and handed the doublet over. Geralt moved it aside to see a tear right by the sleeve, like someone had grabbed him as he tried to run away. Geralt could see it so clearly, Jaskier running out of the house and his newest lover's spouse grabbing him, hoping to hurt him. Jaskier ran his mouth wherever he went, seducing whoever he wanted, and Geralt had always said his mouth and perfumed words would get him into trouble someday. 

He took the coat anyway, and grabbed his pouch filled with needles and black thread. Jaskier clapped happily, and sat down to watch Geralt work. He was remarkably silent while Geralt did his job, watching carefully. He pulled the thread in and out of the fabric, pulling the rip together, until it was barely noticeable. He snipped the thread, and Jaskier grabbed his coat again. 

“Thank you so much Geralt,” Jaskier said, tugging it back on. “You’re a lifesaver, my dear. You could have a career as a seamstress,” he winked as he left the room. His footsteps echoed as he walked away, and Geralt put back the needles. 

* * *

Geralt was at a contract, and Jaskier should have been at the inn, away from the danger. But Geralt could see out of the corner of his eye, watching the fight carefully like he didn’t care what could happen to him, like he only cared about the lyrics he could gain from it, not his own life. Geralt snarled, and resolved to deal with him later, when they were out of danger and the drowners killed. 

There were three of them, and Geralt moved to the side in the water, sending a spray of water through the air. His sword came down upon one of their heads, and it screamed before dying. Geralt withdrew his sword, and prepared to get the other two. 

One of them tried to drag Geralt under, but he slashed and it fell, the blood and guts splashing all over Geralt. He knew it would be impossible to get out later, and he was grateful Jaskier was there to wash his hair, even if he was fucking pissed at him right now. 

He couldn’t see the other one, then suddenly a sharp pain exploded in his side, and Geralt looked down to see a cut on his chest, bleeding. The drowner reared up, like it was going to attack, and Geralt knew he wouldn’t lift his sword in time. 

Jaskier screamed from the shore, and Geralt wished he would shut up for once, wished he could stay silent for just a second. The drowner caught sight of Jaskier on the land, and instead of focusing on Geralt ran towards him, looking for easy prey. Jaskier didn’t seem to be running though, and he picked up a rock, like that would do anything against it. He shouted something, a taunt Geralt knew, and Geralt's blood boiled. He ran up towards the shore, where Jaskier wasn’t running, and where he was about to die spewing bullshit from his mouth, and Geralt swung his sword. It cut halfway through the body, and the monster fell, the guts spilling onto Jaskier. 

Geralt pulled his sword from the body, and turned to Jaskier, who was fucking cheering. He was covered in blood and guts, like he had been the one to defeat the beast, as if he hadn’t just about died, because Geralt wasn’t there to protect him, because he hadn’t listened to Geralt. 

“What the fuck Jaskier?” he growled, and Jaskier crossed his arms, like Geralt was the one in the wrong. Geralt felt so angry, like he could light a fire with just his emotions. The cut on his chest was still bleeding, but he barely noticed, too focused on Jaskier. 

“I saved your life Geralt, show some gratitude,” Jaskier said, then wiped his face, smearing the blood. “Ew, this is disgusting. We’re both going to need baths after this. C’mon grab their heads and we’ll go back to the inn. I need to take a look at that cut of yours.” He turned around, and began walking back, like what he said was final. 

Geralt watched him go, seeing through crimson glasses, and turned back to get the heads. Sometimes he would be denied payment because they didn’t believe he had actually gotten rid of then, so he used proof. 

* * *

They made it back to the inn, and a bath was brought up for them, smelling of lavender and rose. The water was steaming, and filled the small room with warmth and moisture. Jaskier gingerly bandaged his cut, his finger gentle against Geralt's scarred skin. It wasn’t deep enough for stitches, and it would be healed tomorrow, but Jaskier still fussed. He washed Geralt's hair, the dried blood on his face flaking off. When Geralt finally got out, he went in as well. The water wasn’t as warm as before, and he only spent a few minutes in, washing his face and hair where the worst of the blood was. 

When he came out, he dressed in a lacy undershirt and high waisted pants made of a shimmery material. They were in a small inn at a secluded area, and Jaskier didn’t have anyone to impress, so he left his doublet undone. Geralt pretended it didn’t affect him at all. When he was about to go down, Geralt finally found his words. 

“Jaskier, I thought I told you to stay behind,” he said sitting on the bed, his words trembling with anger. His swords were on his lap, being cleaned from the blood and guts. He made slow, methodical movements, and the blade gleamed. 

“That you did, my dear,” Jaskier smiled, “And I didn’t listen. And look out it turned out! The courageous bard defends defenceless witcher. I can already hear the hit song I can write.” He seemed so gleeful about his almost death. Geralt hated him. 

“Dammit Jaskier, you act like you’re invincible,” he snarled, almost standing up, but staying put. “You’re only human, you should have just let me protect you.” 

Jaskier crossed his arms, looking upset. “I don’t need you to protect me all the time y’know,” he said. “I can defend myself, I did it for eighteen years before I met you.” 

“You were going to use a rock to kill a monster.” 

Jaskier scoffed. “So that wasn’t my best idea, whatever. You need to stop acting like you’re so invincible either, because you’re not. I helped you today, I saved your life.” 

“That’s my job, not yours,” Geralt responded, and Jaskier laughed, like that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. Geralt's blood burned, and he wished he never agreed to let Jaskier come with him, never becoming attached to a foolish human who believed himself immortal. Never should have fallen in love, a tiny voice said, especially with someone as delicate and as breakable as him. 

“It shouldn’t be Geralt. You deserve to be protected and cared for too. Let me, please,” Jaskier said, stepping closer and Geralt saw red. 

He wanted his silence back, when people didn’t sprout their lies about him, where they didn’t tell him he deserved to be protected, to be as cared for as anyone else. He needed Jaskier to shut up, to stay caged so he wouldn’t follow Geralt anymore, so Geralt could continue on not hearing his lies. 

“Please Geralt, let me fight for you,” Jaskier begged, and Geralt wanted his words gone. But he wasn’t cruel enough to send Jaskier away for good, just selfish enough to want to keep Jaskier trapped at his side, instead of at court where he belonged, so instead Geralt just said: 

“Get out.” 

Jaskier stopped, and seemed to consider it. He sent one last pleading look towards Geralt, and Geralt bared his teeth, like an animal. Jaskier pursued his lips, then left to go play. After a few minutes, Geralt could hear his lute and voice, sweeter than honey. The tavern erupted in cheers, and Geralt trembled with rage and terror. 

He thought about Jaskier and how he had almost lost him today. He would have had to bury his body alone, because Geralt was the only person Jaskier was truly close to. He would have had to shut Jaskiers beautiful blue eyes himself, watching as the light left them. His fists clenched as he thought about what Jaskier had told him, his lies. His fingers pushed into his blade, and blood dripped down. 

He wouldn’t try and pretend; he wanted Jaskier in ways he shouldn't be allowed. If Vesemir could see him, he would slap him. Geralt wanted his silence back, wanted his sanity back, where he didn’t care about a stupid human boy. 

He was almost okay, listening to Jaskier play from downstairs, the music muted, when he remembered something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the blue ribbon, still as beautiful as it was at the fair. It was small in his hands, and he stared at it. He remembered how he had thought Jaskier would look amazing in it, it wrapped around his throat like a choker. 

He held it up to the candle light, and he could hear Jaskiers voice echo through the stares, his voice carrying through the rafters and up to heaven. 

Geralt knew what he wanted to do with it. 

* * *

He walked downstairs, almost in a trance, and the music stopped. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier called, running up to him. The people stared at them, judgement in their eyes, and on another day, Geralt may have cared about what they thought of Jaskier, cared when they spat out _witchers whore_ but he couldn’t focus. “I’m glad you decided to come down, the food here is very good.” Jaskier was rambling, but Geralt couldn’t hear. 

He grabbed Jaskier by the arm, and tugged him upstairs, Jaskier following easily, obediently. It was strange, Geralt thought, how easily Jaskier followed a monster. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked as Geralt flung him into the room. His voice was loud, and it grated on Geralt's nerves. He had a coil of rope on the dresser, and he picked it up. Jaskiers eyes widened, filled with fear, and fuck, it was almost a good look on him, the boy who rarely was afraid. 

“I have a gift for you.” 

* * *

Whimpers and muffled sobs filled the room. The only light came from a flickering candle and the moon from the open window, casting dark shadows across the room. The air was warm, and the sounds of laughter and voices drifted in from the window, the nights drunken midsummer revelries still not done. 

Jaskiers sat on the edge of the bed, and Geralt sat on a chair across from him. Jaskiers eyes were flooded with tears, and they rolled down his flushed cheeks in steady drops. His body trembled violently and he was clearly making an effort not to make a sound, and failing miserably. Geralt tried to ignore the sounds, concentrating on his work instead. Jaskiers breathing was laboured, his heartbeat fluttering in his chest. The thick stench of fear penetrated the air, sharp and bitter. Geralt rolled his eyes. "Hold still," he muttered sharply, one hand holding Jaskiers chin firmly, and the other moving up and down, almost mechanically. "It will hurt more if you move." 

Jaskier whimpered louder in response. Geralt looked up from his job and into his eyes. Jaskiers eyes were wide and wet, eyelashes clumped together, somehow making the bright blue of his eyes clearer. He looked innocent, younger like this, like he did when Geralt had first met him. He looked like something that shouldn't be here with Geralt; he seemed like he would be right at home with the nobility of the land, covered in silk and perfumes and expensive clothing. Geralt almost felt bad for what he was doing to him, but sometimes he needed his silence. 

He could feel Jaskier try and twist away from him weakly, but to no avail. His wrists were lashed tightly together, the rough rope digging into the soft skin. Geralt knew it would leave marks for weeks and he allowed himself to feel a small amount of pity for the bard. He made a mental note to put some salve on the cuts later. He had some inside of his pack that he always used. 

"There," he whispered, picking up his scissors and cutting the thread. He tied it off with a quick knot and finally let go of Jaskier chin. Jaskier trembled, but didn't pull away like Geralt expected him to. "All done." He sat back to admire his handiwork. 

What a sight Jaskier looked like; lips sewn together with the lovely blue ribbon, blood and tears dripping down his throat onto his lacy chemise. Geralt stood up and put his tools- a silver needle covered in blood and his scissors- away, relishing in the silence for what seemed to be the first time in eons. There was no talking, no needless comments. It felt like bliss to him. He had finally gotten in his silence, the silence he had ached for. 

Of course, in a few days he would cut the ribbon, mourn its loss, but he could buy another at another fair. And he would smear some salve on Jaskiers wounds, and they would leave with minimal scarring. Geralt was skilled at sewing after all, and maybe after this Jaskier would know when to keep his mouth shut. 

Jaskier's sobs steadily got louder as he hesitantly brought his still bound hands to his lips to feel the ribbon, brushing them against his swollen, too red lips. He looked so betrayed and heartbroken, but that's the price for silence, Geralt supposed. 

"Oh don't look so disappointed bard. You can still play the lute. I haven't taken your hands away just yet."

**Author's Note:**

> morning me is going to regret this, but right now, i dont care. I might delete later
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading! :)


End file.
